


The Kids are Alright

by Dandee



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: F/F, Trish - Freeform, crackfic, dumpsters, friendship fic, it's whatevah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2019-10-08
Packaged: 2020-11-27 18:42:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20953121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dandee/pseuds/Dandee
Summary: Her name's Trish and she just got out of her mom's garage. She's fourteen days clean and sober by the grace of god (still smokin' a little bit of pot, but it's whatevah). It's all about her, God, and Thanksgivin'. Why? Cause everyday's Thanksgivin'. And in the words of the great Jimmy Buffet, we all know that Santa stole Thanksgivin', so now it's Christmastime-- or at least it was a couple months ago. She couldn't feel her feet last year, but those days are over now-- she's a new woman today.Trish meets an unlikely character.





	The Kids are Alright

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know, yall. If you wanna yell about it hit me up on tumblr @missdandee

“Thank ya, sir. God bless ya.”

Trish takes the five and tucks it into her tit, watching the guy that gave it to her rejoin his happy-lookin’ lady-friend.

Thank God for tourists.

Her strappy heels drag along the sidewalk as she fumbles with the soft-pack of Pall Malls. Good ole’ tourists, even in February. Guy can’t be that well off if he’s sightseeing in goddamn shitting February but hey, maybe he’s Catholic. Maybe he’s got guilt issues. Or maybe he just wants to get laid. Who cares, it’s Christmas. Or it was. Close enough, whatevah.

She pats her chinchila pockets and groans.

“Eh, crapsticks,” she mumbles, cigarette dangling from her lips. She pats her other tit, then spins around and pats her tush. There ain’t nothin’ there but it’s just crazy-- that's the third lighter today gone missin’. The good lord above’s got her in some kinda purgatory, got her suckin’ on cigarettes but won’t let her smoke ‘em. 

Some sense of humor that lady’s got. 

“Hey!” She calls, rushes over to a dude headed toward the crosswalk with a stogie. He immediately picks up his pace, and so does she.

“Hey! Hey.” She grabs his elbow and he whirls around, face pink and chapped from the cold. She grabs the cigarette from her lips and waves it to him, “Light me up?”

“Jesus, lady,” he stammers, shrugging her off. He scowls real mean-like at her before he pulls his coat tighter, muttering a “psycho bitch” and turning on his heel.

Trish’s brows furrow as she watches him go. “No--you!” she calls after him, but he just keeps walking. Yeah, keep walkin’. Mean-ass.

People, man. 

That’s the thing about the city-- for every kind-hearted tourist you get an asshole local who thinks they own the place. An asshole local who still needs a smartphone to get back to their high-rise condo or they get their asses lost. Trish doesn’t have a phone. Doesn’t want one, doesn’t need one. She knows these streets like the back of her hand, could get herself anywhere in this goddamn city quicker than you could say the serenity prayer in a five-thirty rush. She could take the train six times over and not pay a single penny outta her pocket. She could swipe a hotdog stand faster than a knifefight in a phone booth. These ain’t their streets. They're hers. 

A chilly breeze whips from around a building and slaps her in her face. She pops her smoke back in her mouth, shoves her hands deep in her pockets. 

She braces herself against it, tense as she steps away from the street. It might be one of  _ those _ nights tonight, one of those station stairs nights. It smells like piss but at least it’s warm. The dumpster’s always an option, but last time she fell asleep in the can shit got real sticky in the morning. Wakin’ up in a garbage truck isn’t so fun— all that. Ya know. 

She watches her feet as she walks slow, putting one foot sexily in front of the other. She smiles at the shimmery silver heels, the way the ankle straps hug her wooly socks. Bobby’s such a sweetheart, thinkin’ of her around Christmastime and gettin’ these. She’s gonna call him again tomorrow. Just gotta find a pay phone that works. But she’ll call him. 

A sniffly sound grabs her attention. Trish glances up.

A little girl, standing right outside the train stairs. Blonde hair pulled into a ball on top of her head, sweet little navy blue peacoat. Huggin’ her own waist and lookin’ around scared. 

Trish looks behind her, then back again. What, somebody just left her here? People dumpin’ kids now? Christ.

She sticks her cigarette behind her ear and mozies on over to the girl, whistling a low Jimmy Buffet Christmas tune. She strolls past her casually and parks it against the railing of the stairs. She clears her throat.

The girl doesn’t look at her. 

Trish coughs, sniffs loud. She catches a little side eye from the kid but that's about it. The kid just hugs herself tighter, lookin’ straight ahead.

Giving an inaudible sigh, Trish looks around for a sec. She scuffs her heel against the pavement, flaps her coat. Then, after a moment, out of the corner of her mouth,

“You, uh-- you got a light?”

The girl blinks once, twice. Then her face scrunches up and she looks at Trish, all brown eyed and buck toothed. 

“Wh-- what?”

Trish rolls her eyes. “A lighter. Matches?  _ Fuego?” _

A moment passes between them-- the girl, brow creased and nose wrinkled, blinking— and Trish staring back at her, foot tapping against the pavement. 

The girl never gives an answer, and Trish eventually shrugs her off. She grumbles and slumps back against the railing. Kids these days, no respect for their elders. 

“That depends, you got a cigarette for me?”

Well  _ that  _ catches Trish off-guard, she’ll admit it. She’s no stranger to the game. But a bit young to be playin’ in the streets, this one.

She measures the wager— kid can’t be older than thirteen, maybe twelve and a half. But she’s old enough to know better, and who’s Trish to judge? She’s been smokin’ since she was ten, holed up in the back of a dressing room pinning her ma’s garter to her thigh-high and cutting cash after showtime. 

She peers at the kid from the corner of her eye. Little shit’s still lookin’ straight ahead, but now she’s wearin’ a smirk like a kitty-cat who’s locked it’s people outside. 

“Ahrite, ahrite,” Trish sighs, reaches into her pocket and digs into her pack. She pulls two smokes, and the girl reaches out her hand.

“Uh-uh, huh.” Trish waggles her finger, “Light first.”

The kid rolls her eyes. She bends to fish a box of matches out of her sock, and smacks it into Trish’s open palm. 

“Aaaank- _ you _ .”

Lipping the cig, Trish swipes the matchstick on the red and  _ hey _ , first try (she’s still got it), and the  _ thhrraaackk _ of the success is like an angel singin’ out in the heavens. She covers the flame with her palm and gets a good cherry going. She tosses the box back to the kid and waves the stick out.

Kid catches the box and Trish flips her the other stogie. Kid catches that too, and she doesn’t say shit when she peels right past Trish and makes for the alley. 

Smart kid. 

Trish takes a long drag and boy  _ God is good _ , it hits the spot. She stares out into the street for a second, watches a couple taxis swish by. An icy spray kicks up from under one of the wheels, and her knees buckle when it hits her straight in the caps.

“ _ Agh _ , shit.” She steadies herself. Can’t afford another slip today.

She shoves her free hand back into her pocket, pulling her coat back to her and turns against the street. She shuffles around a little, that ole christmastime song creepin’ it’s way back into her brain. 

“Merry Christmaass, Alabammaa— “ she bounces on her steps, wandering toward the alley. “Merry Chrissstmaaas... Tenness.. seee...”

She spots the kid, leaning up against the backdoor of Shangie’s Pack-n-Ship. She’s scratchin’ away at the matchbox, a couple _goddamnit_’s and _fuck_’s slippin’ out from around the cig between her buckteeth. She finally does get a light but she jumps, throws it out with a hiss and stomps her little heels.

“Hang on-“ Trish makes toward her, bringing her smoke back to her lips. Kid jumps, then serves a real suspicious scowl. She stays put though, and gets another match.

“Come on, here.” Trish nods, cupping her hands forward. 

Kid huffs, but swipes again. She swipes a few more times, eventually turning into Trish’s little shield. 

“Come on kid—do it like ya mean it, come on—”

Kid glares up from under her brows but keeps on, gettin’ kinda pissed. On a particularly desperate swipe,  _ voila _ , she gets lucky. 

“Easy, ahrite, there ya go-“ Trish keeps her hands hovered over the girl’s cig, and kid goes crossed-eyed while she watches the cherry light. Then she pinches the cig and pulls back, tosses the match stick and takes a drag.

Trish pulls back too, and makes her way to the other wall. Trish puffs and the girl sucks in through her teeth. Two streams of smoke blow from opposite sides of the alley.

“Thanks,” Kid says after a minute, leaning against the door and still lookin’ sus. She’s got her arms half-crossed with one knee up, oh-so-poised, like a fuckin’ ballerina on a lunchbreak. 

Trish shrugs. “Yeah.”

And now the girl’s doin the thing they all do— just judgin’ Trish up and down. Reading her outfit, makin’ up stories about who she is and what she’s  _ really _ smokin’. Trish is used to it by now, but she still pulls her coat in tighter. She clears her throat and shakes the loose hair outta her face.

“You should probably stick to daylight, kid. These streets are mean.”

Kid scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Who asked you?”

Trish shrugs again, “I’m just sayin’ honey. Ya got a lot of nerve, pullin’ stunts on a Friday night.”

Kid leans her head back on the brick. “Yeah well,” she takes quick drag, “I can take care of myself.”

Maybe it’s her god-given maternal instinct, but Trish’s heart goes all soft for a minute. Who’s lettin’ this little baby run the streets at night? Who’s dressin’ her up in fancy clothes like that, then not givin’ a shit about where she is?  _ It’s 7pm, do you know where your child is?  _ Ain’t anyone ever seen the commercial? What kinda mother-

“And actually, I’d really appreciate it if you’d fuck off.”

Trish feels her forehead wrinkle when her brows shoot up. “‘Scuse you?”

“Yeah.” The girl cocks her head, eyes narrowed, “This is  _ my _ spot. Find your own.”

“ _ Your  _ spot? Sorry, but —what are you, nine?”

“Twelve, actually,” kid says. She blows smoke and looks at her nails like a goddamn debutante.

“Oh, right,” Trish chuckles, “Twelve. So sorry. ‘Scuse me Queenie Bee.”

The girl’s eyes snap up from her nails. “And what are you, seventy-five?”

Ouch, that’s ripe.

“Well  _ that’s _ not very-“

“Shouldn’t you have been home by three? So you could catch the news at five and make it to bed by seven? Or does Wheel of Fortune push bedtime to eight?”

“Hey, I will  _ have you know- _ “

“Or did you forget to drink your prune juice—“

“-that I have lived here longer—“

“-and you’re just taking a stroll to  _ move things around _ —“

“-longer than you’ve been a twinkle in ya daddy’s eye-”

Kid stops, shuts up real fast. She looks down at her cigarette and takes her leg off the wall.

Trish can’t help her victorious grin. 

“Oh no, did I hit a nerve? You don’t got nothin’ else to say?”

The girl shuffles some rocks around with her feet. “M-my dad,” she says, her voice giving a shake, “My dad’s not here anymore.”

Trish’s face falls, and Jesus  _ Fucking  _ Christ she’ll be damned if the kid doesn’t look up at her with tearful eyes and a quivering lip. 

“Oh- oh honey,” Trish waves her hands, “nuh-nuh-no, please don’t cry.” 

The girl wipes at her eyes, and then chokes out a little sob. 

“Oh God honey, I- I’m so sorry,” Trish stammers. She rushes to her with her arms out, “Come here, stop that cryin’.”

The girl seems to give in and falls onto her, her shoulders goin’ and her little cries muffled by Trish’s chinchilla coat. This poor little thing, so tough on the outside. All she probably wants is some parents who care, but hell, don’t we all? Isn’t that really the root of all our problems? That’s what the psychic said back in June, anyway. And then she stole forty bucks, the bitch.

“Hey, shoosh those tears,” Trish says, gentle as she can. She rubs Kid’s back, real motherly-like. 

“He- he’s in h-heaven now-“

“Oh, shh- of course he is, honey.” Trish looks up at the sky and makes a face. Eh? Is he though? That lady’s got a real issue up there. 

But she rubs the kids back, all the same.

“Is that why ya out here all by yourself?”

The girl nods into her shoulder. Trish sighs. Of course.

This kid could probably use some real solid advice right now, some real words of wisdom. And the lady in the sky brought them together tonight, in this very moment, for Trish to teach her a little bit of what she’s learned about this cruel, nasty world. So it’s time to be a child of God and give it a go. She clears her throat and collect her thoughts as best she can.

“Listen honey,” she starts, “Now your daddy’s in heaven right now, smilin’ down ‘atcha. But ya know, you really gotta- hey- hang on,  _ OW _ —“

And there she is, before she knows it, in a headlock.

Her eyes bulge and she groans, choking out any words she can.

“Gotcha, bitch,” Kid sing-songs, smiling down at her. Trish throws her shoulders around but the kid’s got her good, she ain’t goin’ nowhere. 

“Like I said, I can take care of myself,” Kid says, tightening her hold, her stingin’ cigarette smoke makin’ Trish eyes water. 

“And though I appreciate your sympathy, I’d  _ really  _ appreciate it if you’d just move it along. This is my spot. Not yours. You go find your own. You hear me?”

Trish can only manage a slew of post-verbal, pitiful nonsense. 

“We  _ good _ ?”

Trish nods weaky.

With a chuckle, Kid lets her go. Trish rolls onto the pavement, hacking. 

“Jesus...Christ, kid.“

Kid’s grinning smugly. “Here,” she says, reaching out a hand, “come on. Get up.”

Trish looks at her hand, horrified. “Get the  _ hell _ away from me ya little-“

“Oh come on, Grandma.”

Kid grabs Trish’s hands against her will, and pulls her up to her feet. Trish stumbles for a sec, and she points her finger. 

“You— you’re a fuckinnn’—“

“Black belt? Why yes I am, thank you.”

Trish just stares back at her, catching her breath. Unbelievable, kids these days. No respect, no respect at  _ all- _

“Hey!” Trish sees her stogie on the ground, clean in half. “You broke my cigarette!”

Kid rolls her eyes. She fishes into her peacoat and pulls out the matches. “Here.”

Trish eyes her hand again, not willing to risk it.

“Just take them,” she says, shoving the matches forward, “You can just have them.”

Trish looks from the matches, to the kid, then back to the matches. She reaches out her hand real slow, then jumps back when she snatches them. Kid laughs.

“Oh, actually,” Kid turns and pats her other pocket, “here, this too.”

She pulls out Trish’s Pall Malls and tosses them to her. Trish catches them, frowning.

“Oh, and this too.”

She pulls a bill out of the same pocket, the five that Trish had tucked into her tit. Trish, beside herself, marches over to snatch the bill. “How did you—“

“It’s what I do.”

Trish just stares, and Kid just grins. She takes one last drag of her cigarette and stomps it out.

“You’re unbelievable, kid,” Trish says, truly astonished. She tucks the five back into her tit, and pulls out a fresh cigarette. She pops it in her mouth and mumbles, “You’re a little firecracker, ya know that?”

Kid laughs, lookin’ utterly pleased with herself, like she’d won a prize in her fuckin’ Frosted Cheerios.

“Well thanks.”

As Trish lights a match, Kid holds her hand out again. Trish flinches, but Kid just steady smiles.

“Brie.”

Trish takes a drag and narrows her eyes. She carefully takes her hand, and squeezes. 

“Trish.”

Brie nods. “Well, Trish,” she says, eyes lookin’ like something between lasers and deadbolts, “I hope I never see you again.”

Trish shrugs and pulls back. “Yeah. Likewise, Cracker.”

Brie tilts her head, like she’s weighing something. Like someone just told her she’d be winning the spelling bee, like someone’s just pulled a pageant. She smirks, gives a little ‘hymph’, and makes back toward the street.

“Oh, and thanks for the cigarette,” she calls over her shoulder, her little heels clickety-clackin’ against the pavement.

Trish grimaces, and can’t help but watch the little demon as she goes. Where is her  _ mother _ ? Is she really twelve? Is she even American? That little shit’s gonna learn one of these days, we all gotta learn. But she’ll be alright for a while, Trish can guess that. Crazy little fuck.

Brie stops for a sec, then turns back. Trish tenses and plants her feet, bracing herself. She holds her lit cigarette out in front of her, ready to burn this bitch.

“Hey,” Brie calls. She reaches into her peacoat and pulls out somethin’ shiny. She lowers her arm for an underhand toss and yells, “catch!”

“Uh,” Trish looks behind her, then holds up a hand. Brie chucks it and Trish catches it in her left.

A gold Rolly, with diamonds. Still warm.

Trish looks back up, and Kid’s smilin’.

“Don’t keep it long, I swiped it an hour ago. Go down the road and make a right. They’ll take it.”

Trish looks down at the Rolly, then back up to Kid.

“Uh.. okay?”

Brie shrugs and holds her hands above her head. “It’s Christmas!”

Trish blinks, then scowls. “It- it’s February, ya twit!”

Brie laughs. “Close enough!”

With that she rounds the corner, and  _ poof _ , she’s gone. 

Trish is absolutely walking in the opposite direction of  _ that  _ bitch, and she turns on her heel with a groan. She gazes down at the watch in her palm. It’s gorgeous, it’s luxurious- it’s the most precious thing she’s held in years. Well, besides Bobby.

Bobby. He’d love this one. She could give it to him for Christmas-In-July or somethin’, or a Happy-Birthday present. He could put it on and she could get all dolled up and they could go have a real nice dinner, real fancy-like at the Black Eyed Pea. 

She comes to the end of the street and rounds the corner. A neon green  _ Yvie’s Odds  _ hangs over a doorway, calling Trish’s name.

Eh, Bobby’ll be fine. Cash is king, after all.

And the bell on the door dings as she skips back out onto the street, tucking a wad of cash in her tit. She’s gonna need a bigger bra, that’s for sure. And maybe a soda, a Big Blue. And maybe she’ll get a nice Danielle Steel from the book store, and have a quiet night in the halfway house. She’s just gotta make it to midnight and she’ll have fifteen days sober, by the grace of God. And maybe she’ll find a payphone, and she’ll call Bobby. 

Before she calls Bobby though, she’s gotta call her sponsor. She’s gotta call her and tell her all about her day, about what she did wrong and what she did right. And of course, she’s gotta tell her all about Kid. She’s gotta tell her about the nicest stranger she’s met in a long, long time.

  
  



End file.
